The Warden of the Cinque Ports Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

A mist was driving down the British Channel,
         The day was just begun,
And through the window-panes, on floor and panel,
         Streamed the red autumn sun.

It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon,
         And the white sails of ships;
And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon
         Hailed it with feverish lips.

Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, and Dover
         Were all alert that day,
To see the French war-steamers speeding over,
         When the fog cleared away.

Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions,
         Their cannon, through the night,
Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defiance,
         The sea-coast opposite.

And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations
         On every citadel;
Each answering each, with morning salutations,
         That all was well.

And down the coast, all taking up the burden,
         Replied the distant forts,
As if to summon from his sleep the Warden
         And Lord of the Cinque Ports.